


Sunburn

by thebestoftimes



Category: Les Miserables
Genre: Although not in the first few chapters, Canon Era, EXPLICIT SELF HARM, Eponine is in love with Marius, Eponine is in the friendzone, F/M, Implied Relationships, M/M, also the chapters are very short, but she is a fairly large character in this, once again do not read if self injury trigeers you, self-injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebestoftimes/pseuds/thebestoftimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Enjolras is Apollo, god of the sun, then he is burning Grantaire.</p>
<p>Or perhaps Grantaire is simply flying too close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

(Enjolras)

     “And so we will fight!” I exclaim. “We will fight for liberty, and we will not back down until the day we get it!” There. Another speech given. I step down from my perch on a chair, smiling. Several of the men around me offer praise, and the Café Musain begins to clear of my followers. Just as well. I sink into a chair at the usual table used by my friends, my companions in the battle for freedom. Combeferre gives me a quick pat on the back before rushing out to return home before the night sets in. I retrieve a pen from my pocket, pull some blank paper toward me, and rub my forehead. I have not been sleeping much of late, and it has had an impact on my speeches.

     “Oh, is the great Apollo tired?” Grantaire jeered. “Finally feeling what it is to be human?”

     He is the soul doubter of the group. Time and time again, I have questioned why he bothers coming. His response is ever the same. “You shall see.” I do not see.

     I look at him. “Just sip your wine and keep quiet, won’t you.”

     “Dear Apollo, you would keep me from my fun?”

     I sigh. “Enough.” My pen meets the paper, and I write. The speeches are always the same. They sound invincible, unstoppable, and strong, but underneath they are thin as the paper they are written on. Surely the other men see it too.

     I crumple up sheet after sheet, waiting for some great muse to strike me and present the next wonderful way of wording the same message. At times, there is so much to say, so many words and feeling of determination that I must communicate instantly, but today is not one of those times. There are no new sparks to keep my fire growing; and so it burns on, steadily, but wearily.

     Wearily…

     “Enjolras!” My heavy eyes open. “Wake!”

     “I…did I…?”

     “You have fallen asleep, Apollo. Time to get up.”

     “Grantaire?” Of course. His tender tone surprised me, and I brace myself for the oncoming mockery. “Shall you not taunt me? Is Grantaire unable to think of a single sharp word?”

     A hint of a smile plays across his face. “Can I not assist my dear Apollo in his time of need?” His voice drips with overly sweetened honey. I roll my eyes, but smile inside. I suppose he helps me to relax, in a way, with his obnoxious commentary. In a way.

     Tiredly, I gather my papers and pen. I suppose it’s time to return home, and maybe I’ll allow myself a few hours of comfortable sleep. Yes…that would be nice…

     “Well, goodbye, Grantaire. I suspect this is not, unfortunately, the last we’ll be seeing of each other.”

     He grins in that boyish, cocky way of his, and gives an exaggerated bow to me. I pretend not to notice him as I exit the little back room where the meetings are held and proceed through the long corridor out of the Musain.


	2. Chapter 2

(Grantaire)

     He struggles, that Enjolras. He goes to great lengths to conceal his uncertainty, his fear, his…humanity. Only I see it. I can tell.

     He exits the room with a confident stride, but his head is bowed. He shows no weakness to the other men, but it is evident, in the bags under his eyes, the way his pen moves more and more slowly across the page. Apollo is faltering. And even he does not notice, yet.

     I swallow another mouthful of wine, my bitter friend. Enjolras mocks me for it, and I suppose that yes, drinking and doubting is all I am good for. As opposed to him, the bright hope of youth, the face of our revolution, having such promise.

     Yes, I say _our_ revolution. I am part of it; though the others are loathe to admit it. I question why I stay with it. It is hopeless. We will never match the armies we face. The barricades will never rise tall enough. But I don’t dare say this. No, better stick to harmless sarcasm. It can be brushed off. The truth, however, looms over us, darker by the day, and mentioning this will only darken it more. The truth is a very permanent, very real thing.

     Mustn’t the others know it too?

     Enjolras must, at least. He is young, though he is two years my senior. Even so. That marble lover of liberty is cracking, slowly. He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, as Atlas did. A deed unfit for grand Apollo. Shining Apollo, that symbol of all things bright and glorious, progression, guidance.

     Simultaneously, a symbol of poetry and dreams. I chose his nickname well. But I will not deny my belief in him. These dreams are dreams that my Apollo breathes life into, dreams I believe he could solidify. He and only he could do such a thing. So I wait, and watch, and laugh and mock and fill my glass.

     But now the night is upon Paris, and the wine has begun at last to burn, so, I am homeward bound. The cobblestone streets glisten silver in the moonlight, and I know that the day they turn scarlet is approaching. I take the longer way home, the way that takes me past the building in which Enjolras lives. I can see that his light is still on, and, if I squint, I can make out the shape of him sitting at a desk, pouring over his next presentation.

     Why have I come this way? Why on earth do I feel the need to check on him? I cannot find the answer. It is not my responsibility to care. Surely.

     I push the thoughts from my mind and round a few more corners. The nights here bring out thieves and bandits, and while I know most of them from purchasing liquor, I still feel uneasy being out alone. When I at least reach my building, I hurry up to my flat, where I find that I am unable to sleep.

     The dying coals on my fire set a soft glow to the room, and the light reminds me of that in Enjolras’s room. He ought to be sleeping. That man needs to relax, to put aside the revolution for one day and rest. But I know he won’t. That is what fuels him, at the same time beating him down. He is Apollo, and he will continue like this until the time comes for true action. I wish he would be kinder to himself in this way.

     But then again, I find myself questioning why I care. I should not care any more than the other men. In fact, I should care less than that. Why should I be concerned for a man who resents me so? Who knows? It is too much worry for my drunken mind to handle tonight, and so, finally, I sink into the down pillow and dream of bullets of rain extinguishing the warmest fire I have ever encountered.


	3. Chapter 3

(Grantaire)

     “Again, Grantaire?” This is one of the rare days in which my and Enjolras’s paths cross on the way to the Café. “To what do I owe the honor of your presence today?”

     It is not the first time he has asked me that question, just as it is not the first time I reply with a smug smile. “You shall see,” I say. “Oh, you shall see.”

     Enjolras glares. “You say that to me often, and yet I still do not see. Explain yourself, or don’t bother coming again.” This makes me laugh.

     “But Apollo, if I may no longer attend your little pep rallies, how will you ever get to see?” I slow my pace so that he may walk ahead of me. I watch the steps he takes, firm and sure. He walks briskly, glancing back at me with an-expectant?-look in his eyes? Then he shrugs and carries on, as if he expects nothing of me. I consider rejoining him, to walk and mock his beliefs some more. But I hold back, and watch him go. I am certain that he knows, I almost never mean harm by my words. He must.

     Close enough that I can see him, but not so close that we appear to know each other, Apollo shines ahead of me. And for what reason do I stay back, admiring him from afar?

     Simply that, I realize. Admiration. For as surely as Apollo is the sun am I the moon, small, unimportant, but there. Less beautiful, less useful than the sun, but feeding off of its light for all it’s worth. Without Enjolras, I would not attend the meetings, would have no purpose at all. He stands strong at the helm of the ship, and so I take the orders with a bit of sarcasm. It works for us; for me anyway.

  _Admiration?! What’s happened to you, Grantaire?_

     Admiration, indeed, Grantaire. Admiration indeed.

     The Café Musain rises up at a dead end in the cobblestone streets. It was, perhaps, grand at one time, but since then has been rather neglected on the outside. It leans this way and that, as if the slightest breath of wind could cause the whole thing to crumble in an instant. The main room is usually full of a sorry lot: sailors on a break from being at sea, looking for some alcohol to drown the unpleasentries of ocean-faring. Men who were thieves by night, guzzling down the money they got unlawfully in a few glasses of strong liquor. The poor folk, looking for a warm place to sit and spend a few coins on a cheap drink. And the regulars, of whom I was once a part of, who spend day and night there, drinking, gambling, making merry-as merry as life gets, which is mediocre when greeted with large amounts of optimism, downright depressing if not.

     But if one goes through a shabby door in the back, up a rickety flight of stairs and through that long hallway, one finds a band of hopefuls led by Apollo.

     There is Jehan Prouvaire, the dreamer, romantic, artistic, and confined, the one who writes poetry about springtime and love in the corner. Courfeyrac, the charmer, peaceful yet unafraid. Combeferre, the citizen, who loves the people, who is good in every sense of the word. Joly, who studies medicine and has his little…quirks, you could say. Feuilly, a working man, who dreams of a utopia in France. Bossuet, a man with little luck but much heart. Bahorel, whose scarlet opinions are nearly as loud and forceful as my own. Of course there is the great Enjolras, the leader, who believes so strongly in this light, who declares Patria his mistress and loves liberty and little else. My Apollo.

     Every one of them saintlike, save myself. Yes, I was born for the brandy and wine, for the snide mockery and disbelief. Do I hate that?

     You could say it.


	4. Chapter 4

(Enjolras)

            “Combeferre! Do we have all the guns we need?”

            “Most of them, Enjolras. Give it a few more weeks.”

            “Our time is running short!”

            “Aye,” says Grantaire from his corner. “Enjoy your last few breaths.”

            “Be quiet, you,” I snap. “Where is Marius?”

            Glancing around, it became clear that no one knew where the boy was. Eponine, the girl who practically kept tabs on him, was nowhere to be found to ask. Marius was rarely late for a meeting. It was worrying.

            “I’m sure he’s fine,” says Bossuet.

            This is not a time to be tardy. The barricades will be rising in a matter of weeks, I am certain, and there he goes pretending the revolution is of little importance. “He had better make an appearance soon.” I sigh. My comrades just don’t understand how much this means. Our names are destined for the history books, our country destined for greatness because of our actions. I can feel it, taste it, this thing I’ve craved since I discovered other revolutionaries in the books my parents kept in our house library. It will happen. So I tell myself every waking moment.

            “Perhaps he knows better.” That blasted drunk in the corner pipes up again. “Smart boy, that one. Knows to get out while he can. Unlike the rest of us, sorry little souls, walking into the line of bullets-”

            “Grantaire, that’s _enough!”_ I shout. He’s drunk, and we all know it; he’s usually intoxicated, but today especially.

            “You know it, Enjolras,” he slurs his words. “You know, yeah, you know that you’re leading us to our deaths; you know you’re going to kill us all; your little flag waving won’t block the fire when it comes…” At this point he stands up on his chair and rips a French flag off the wall next to him. In a crude impersonation of me, he whips it around his head, laughing and shouting, “C’mon boys! Let’s go get drunk and then die! It’ll be worth it just to see the horror of the townspeople! Your lives are nothing, it’s okay! Let’s-”

            In a few quick strides I cross the room and, furiously, shove the madman off his chair. He tumbles to the ground, hitting the floorboards with a loud thud, the corner of his flag catching one of his wine bottles and pouring the sour liquid on top of him. I wrap my hand around his collar and yank him up. “Grantaire, that’s ENOUGH!” I bellow, spitting in his red face. “You don’t deserve to be here, you bastard.” I carelessly drop him, and as he falls he grabs the corner of the table for stability. When I reach the center of the room, I realize that the others are staring at me in disbelief.

            “Get out,” I order, looking into Grantaire’s emerald-green eyes with rage. He stares at me.

            “Get out.” The command is repeated, and this time, obeyed. He hauls himself off the floor and raises his bottle in halfhearted salute. Ever the snarky. He walks slowly from the room, all eyes on him, then me, then flitting back to him again. The door scrapes shut behind him, and I turn to face the others.

            “We are rid of the cynic, for now,” my voice says. “Now, where were we…”

            But in my mind, I am focusing on other matters. Namely, that cynic. I’d seen his outbursts before, in the days before he joined my group, when I was entering or leaving the café. I’d often see him lose control then, in the bar. But still, this is the worst he has ever been at a meeting of the _Amis._

            There is a nagging feeling in my brain that perhaps I was too harsh on him. He is drunk, and sought only to amuse the men. I hope.

            Throughout the day, I struggle to convince myself that I acted appropriately, that nothing but brute force could have stopped him anyway. At the end, I do believe it. He got what he deserved, nothing more.

            An apology will not be necessary.

            Of course not. Stupid of me to think so. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize I haven't updated this in forever. School and stuff...sorry! Here's a new chapter though. (Grantaire)

Stupid, stupid, stupid. I let the damn wine rule me, as usual. It is not until I am halfway home that I realize what a mistake I’ve made. I wish I’d kept quiet. I wish I hadn’t hurt my Apollo this way. Everyone knows what happens to those who anger the gods.

                I shove open the door to my flat and collapse on the floor. “Enjolras!” I wail. “I’m sorry!” The tears begin to flow down my cheeks, resisted at first, but then I allow them to pour down my face in a waterfall of brine. I crouch before my hearth, listening to the water sizzle on the coals. I am still drunk, I know that. Six bottles of wine can do this to a man.

                I grab the poker and feverishly stoke the fire. The hope is that I can divert my angry, self-hating energy into this small action before I suffocate in this damn room with myself. The reality is something much greater.

                As I dig the poker into the embers with no control, one chunk of red-hot wood is flicked out. I don’t notice it through my tears until it has landed on my forearm, searing away my shirt and into my skin. Instinct tells me to flick it off and douse my arm in cold tap water. But something deeper holds instinct back.

                I sit there, a wreck of a person, and watch this glowing thing blister my own flesh. It hurts, oh, it hurts, like the devil himself has struck me there. But I let it stay because I deserve it, because I know this is right, because…it is helping me.

                My breathing slows, as do the tears. And when the coal burns out, finally, I brush it away and examine the skin.

                If Joly were here, he’d have a conniption. The skin is an angry shade of red, radiating heat. It is about the size of my thumb, and, I realize, has become the best part of me.

                That does not make sense, even to my drunk mind, always so accepting of the ridiculous. But it is. It is the part of me that need not feel shame for my actions. I’ve been punished, and I feel better in one small place.

                What have I done? Never would I have dreamed that something this…crazy, would come of me. It’s alright, though, I tell myself. I will wash it out and carry on, and never speak of this again. No one else could understand.

                The cool water that I dribble onto my arm feels awful. It temporarily extinguishes the heat, cuts off the pain. I should be grateful. But instead…it feels terrible. As though erasing the moment of healing from my past. I can’t do it. I’ll let the wound sit, a reminder of what I must never do again.

                Deep down, I am smiling, though I know I should not be. It is wrong, but still. It seems as though I have found an even worse form of escape than drowning my sorrows in alcohol. Hey, I’ll drink to that.


	6. Chapter 6

(Grantaire)

 

There goes the last of the money I’d gotten from selling a small painting I’d done to an aristocratic family, in exchange for some cheap bottles of white wine. My art merited enough income to pay rent on my apartment and purchase the necessities, but little else. Oh well. Fueling the habit counts as a necessity.

                I take the two bottles in a small paper bag and exit the grungy little liquor store. Paris bustles about before me. The crammed street is full of outdoor booths selling trinkets and food. It is lined with small shops and apartment buildings. Furniture dealers, book shops, and clothing stores, mostly secondhand. This is not the glamorous side of the city; this is where the poor live. We get by.

                “Hello, Grantaire.” I jump when I hear the voice next to me.

                Eponine Thenardier, Marius’s friend who attends our meetings every now and then, stands next to me. It is eerie how quietly she could sneak up on me. Ghostlike.

                The girl clutches a small loaf of coarse bread with dirty, skinny fingers. The way she holds it, I notice, is desperate, as though she may get this meal ripped from her hands at any second. Such is her nature, I assume. We rarely speak of it at the meetings, but we all know where this girl is from.

                “Hello, Eponine. Say, do you know where Marius was yesterday? We missed him at the Musain.”

                Her eyes widen. “Oh, he was…meeting someone. Yes. I’m sorry he couldn’t be there…he…” Her voice trails off, and she looks away. Ratty brown hair falls across her face. You know, she could be pretty, if she was allowed to be on the streets. It’s common knowledge among the Amis that she feels affection for Marius. Sometimes I question his oblivion toward her.

                “It isn’t your fault. Walk with me a bit?” She glances around anxiously before smiling and nodding.

                “Thank you.”

                I pull a bottle from my bag and ease out the cork, which wasn’t well placed to begin with. Cheap wine, I remind myself before taking a long sip as we walk. I don’t know her very well, but I feel as though we could find common ground. The lonely ones. Shunted to the back, always.

                “Have you ever thought about drinking _less_?” She chuckles. “It’s all you do!”

                “All I’m good for,” I reply.

                “I’m sure that isn’t true. I used to tell myself I was good for nothing too, because my father always said, and…yes. But…maybe I was lying to myself.”

                Poor Eponine. “You were lied to. Of course. You’re good for many things, I’d guess. I, on the other hand, never said I was good for nothing. I said I was good for _drinking._ ” That gets a good healthy laugh out of her. I offer her the bottle. “Perhaps you should try it.”

                I expect her to take it, but she shakes her head and pops a bite of bread into her mouth. “I couldn’t possibly.”

                I shrug and tip more alcohol down my throat. She understands what it’s like, to feel worthless. I had never expected that. Perhaps, perhaps, someday I could tell her about my burn.

                Or better yet, let old wounds heal and then forget them.

                A flash of scarlet catches my eye. I turn my head and see Enjolras striding down the street from the direction of his university. He bears a heavy law book and his permanent expression of determination. Eponine sees him too, and her attention is on his book. “You know,” she says quietly, “Daddy never let me learn to read.”

                I tear my eyes away and look at her wonderstruck expression. “You can’t read?”

                She bites her lip. “No. I’d like to. Marius talks about his books to me a lot, but…I’ve never told him I can’t. It’s been so long, too…but Daddy would be so mad.”

                “Why won’t he let you learn?”

                “He doesn’t want me to be too smart. He says…he needs me, for money, and…the things he does…he wants me to stay, so he keeps me dumb, but…I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”

                “No, that’s awful!” I can see Enjolras heading towards us out the corner of my eye. “Truly. You’re very smart, Eponine. You ought to learn to read.” She blinks in surprise. A smile creeps up on my lips. “You should ask Marius to teach you. Now, have a sip.” I pass the wine to her, and this time she grins and takes a long swallow. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go.”

                And with that, I disappear into the crowd, shoving my way to a dark alley, where I down the rest of the golden drink and set the bottle down. After yesterday’s outburst, I can’t face Enjolras. I’m not ready to feel the wrath of Apollo. Coward that I am, I may never be. Curse me, damn me and my stupid antics. I wish I’d stayed sober. Sober enough to control myself.

                I push up my sleeve and examine the burn. My punishment for angering the god is far from healed. It is swollen, blistering, and an angry red. The smoldering sensation still lingers with an intensity that I’ve been struggling to ignore. But it feels good all the same. Proper.

                A footstep spooks me. With a jerk I roll my sleeve back and turn. Enjolras has found me.


	7. Chapter 7

(Enjolras)

 

Grantaire is pressed against a wall, shrinking into the shadows before me. My eyes catch his, and I hold his gaze for a few long seconds. There is an understanding between us: he is not to run, I am not to hurt him.

            “Grantaire,” I say, unsure where to begin. I have sought out the skeptic to discover where we stand. I will not apologize, he doesn’t need that, I am certain. In the moment that I saw him in the avenue, I decided that confrontation was the best idea. What I expected myself to say is beyond me now. I consider him in front of me.

            “Enjolras.” His eyes hold steady, but his voice quavers. Just slightly. I catch it.

            “Do you fear me now, Grantaire? Now that you’re sober?” I titter nervously.

            “Enjolras, I…I’m sorry.”

            “Damn right you are.”

            “Forgive me, Apollo.” I detect no sarcasm in his voice. That means nothing. Grantaire is a performer, an artist, and I suspect that he is playing in his cruel way.

            “I may, winecask. I need all the allies I can get at this point.” But I know, though I’d never admit it, that I need him for more than that. He is the person who lightens my mood, who woke me a few nights ago and understands the pain I go through. While he is annoying and discouraging, that is a presence worth having around.

            Grantaire appears to nearly smile, then catches himself. I breathe loudly to fill the silence. “There is a meeting tonight at seven.” He nods, and I can tell he knows he is forgiven.

            I should not excuse his actions. Even though it was more the wine than him, I know he should be reprimanded more. Such is in my character. But there was something different about _him_ , something I can’t quite place my finger on. My anger had dissolved last night almost as suddenly as it had come on, rather than brooding as my temper so often did. I have a reputation for being charming, but just as strongly a reputation for being terrible. I have just defied that, for reasons I can’t fully understand.

            My studies have been difficult and the revolution even more so. I cannot take the time to worry about a pessimist’s petty insult to me.

That is all...all.

With a curt nod, I exit the dank alley. Grantaire watches me go with an expression that I can’t read. We’ll see if he shows tonight. I suspect he will. Do I feel…excitement, at the thought? Nervousness? On my way home, I consider how he will behave, if he shows. Maybe he has learned to keep quiet and sober, though I doubt he will stay either of those things. It wouldn’t be right. Nature intended for doubters to be doubters.

And there is still the matter of whether Marius will show. Grantaire was speaking to Eponine, the boy’s closest friend, so I believe it’s safe to assume that she will convince Marius to attend. He had better, for there is little room for halfhearted fighters.

Grantaire was my exception, whom I keep around for my own reasons. I have yet to determine what they are.

Better now to focus on my classes. I enter my cramped apartment and immediately sit down at the desk and get writing, taking notes and composing an essay. I pay special attention to certain paragraphs, about how a law affects the governmental system. I switch back to another book, which explains a section in more detail. I underline, annotate, and take a separate set of notes to present to les Amis. I make sure I understand every inch of every section, for how is a man to topple the government if he does not understand exactly how it operates?


	8. Chapter 8

(Enjolras)

At ten minutes to seven, I lay down my pen. The meeting is about to start, and no doubt the others are on their way as well, if not there already. One in particular nags at me.

            Once I am out of the building, I break into a near run to make it on time. What sort of leader would that make me, being the last to show? A poor one.

            Indeed, I arrive to a crowded room. At the head of the main table, Combeferre bends over a hand-drawn map of the city, conversing with Courfeyrac. Jehan sits near them, sketching another map of the street the Musain watches over. His elbow rests on a book of poetry. He is watched closely by Bahorel. Joly is smoking a pipe and laughing with Bossuet by the window. Off in a shadowy corner, I see Eponine, sitting on the ground and observing the scene with an expression of longing. She does that often. But I don’t see Marius around.

            Grantaire is missing as well.

            No matter.

            I proceed to the center of the room and sit down with Combeferre. He examines my notes intently, then hands me the map he and Courfeyrac were studying. They have made markings in all the possible places we could build a barricade.

            “We’ve decided that the best place would be just outside here, though,” he explains, pointing to a circle around the Musain on the map. “We’ve got the support of many of the shops, as well as the actual café to take shelter in. But your decision is final.”

            “I agree. Here, upon those very stones.” I gesture. “Now we just need to decide the day…” But before we could pursue the matter further, there was a shout from Feuilly.

            “Look who’s here!” He exclaims in a good-natured tone.

            My heart jumps when I realize that Grantaire must have arrived. I knew he would.

            But it’s someone in a blue jacket, with shorter brown hair. “Marius!” I call, “You’re late.”

            “I apologize, friends. I’ve been busy.” I glimpse Eponine, in her corner, look pained.

            “Oh, do tell us,” asks Jehan, in his refined voice.

            “I…no matter, I just…”

            “Well, sit down!” Insists a voice from behind Marius. Grantaire emerges from the hall and pushes Marius into a seat, pushing a half-finished bottle of wine into his hand.

            So the pessimist came after all. I don’t know why this pleases me so much, but it does. Maybe just to know that I was right. Or to know that Grantaire really is loyal to us. He will be valuable, I feel. I hope.

            He catches my eye for an instant, as if to say, “Yes Enjolras, I’ve come. There is nothing you can do about me.”

            I am shaken from my daze as Grantaire turns to Marius and laughs. “So you’ve fallen in love, at last! Enjoy it, enjoy it while you can. There is a battle to be won or lost, and you know how battles go.”

            Marius shakes his head with humor. “I know, I know.”

            So the lad has fallen for someone. He has put aside Patria, whom he should be putting his heart and soul into loving as I do, for a mortal girl. “Marius,” I begin, “It is time to choose what matters most. I know that you mean well, but…there is a higher calling now. This isn’t a game. Your lonely soul can wait.”

            “I understand, Enjolras, but-”

            “There is a war to be fought and won! We will no longer be oppressed. Day by day we are changing the world. Soon we will bring a new tomorrow, and you shall be part of it!”

            “You were not there. None of you. If you were, you would understand. You would know how it feels to stand in the presence of a goddess, of one so dear, to be so purely delighted, and…” His voice trails off, and he drinks some of the wine to cover.

            The boys around me laugh and joke casually, except for Grantaire, whose eyes I can feel analyzing me. They bore straight through my blond curls and into my head, and I feel as though he can read my every thought. From Eponine’s corner, I hear a wistful sigh.

            “It is of no importance,” I announce, to fill the gap. “Save your sweet nothings for the new tomorrow.” I feel the green eyes look away.

            Somewhere through the meeting, Eponine slips away. No one notices her. I feel pity for the girl. Shunted to the shadows, always. Underestimated. I don’t see that she has left until I notice the absence of a quiet presence in the corner.

            “Feuilly, have you been to Rue de Bac?” I address the fan maker.

            “I have, and they are preparing for their own barricade. Only give them the word and they shall rise!”

            “Excellent! Now, Courfeyrac, make sure to have the extra powder for Wednesday, and-Grantaire, put that bottle down!” He looks to me in frustration, but waves away the bottle of brandy he was offered by a worker at the café.

            “Combeferre, those guns will be very useful,” I continue, “And Jehan, be sure to speak with our allies in Rue Plummet soon. Our day of battle is drawing near.”


	9. Chapter 9

It is late when I declare the meeting through. My friends make small talk, teasing Marius about his new romance and making plans for tomorrow night’s conference. I decide to stay behind for a short while and edit a rallying speech for the people. Before long, I notice that Grantaire has stayed as well. He watches me, and I pretend not to notice. After a while, his gaze becomes too much.

“If you have something to say, say it. Lord knows you must,” I mutter, without glancing up from my work.

“Enjolras, thank you.” His reply startles me, and I meet his stare.

“For what?”

“For your forgiveness. For allowing me to return. I know I do not deserve it.”

“But you do…” I realize after the words have left my lips that I did, indeed, say them out loud. “You toy with me, Grantaire.”

He widens his eyes in mock surprise. “I, taunt the great Apollo? Never!” And we both laugh. It feels good, to have a sense of comradory between us two. Awkward, but good, in a way I can’t describe.

“You’re really going to do it.” His tone is grim.

“The revolt? Of course. You thought all this a game?”

“No, of course not. But I…I do not believe it possible. I am sorry, Apoll-Enjolras. But I do not. The cause, it…it is crazy. Madness. And you know it.”

That hurts to hear. He truly doubts the revolution. He understands my dread that I am so reluctant to voice. I admit, I would not have expected Grantaire to be the one to open up like this, yet in a strange way I am not surprised. More like…confused.

“Grantaire, I believe in this cause. I love it beyond words. And yet I still fear it. But you…if you do not believe, then…why are you here? How can you do this, if…?” I am bewildered at how he can bring himself here, pledge his life to this cause, if he does in fact doubt it in its entirety. His reply is even more jarring to me.

“I believe in you.”

“You-what?!”

“I _believe_ in _you._ The way you love it. The way you stand tall, at the helm of the ship, steering her into a typhoon…it is everything I am not. It is as though you are the light, and I am the blind man. I believe in you, and for you I will help the cause.”

I am stunned. Absolutely stunned. That _I_ am the reason the cynic is here? That someone could find me to be…godlike, it sounded.

He calls me Apollo.

I am taken aback, and from the look on his face, I doubt Grantaire is surprised. He looks the slightest bit confused as well, as though questioning where the words came from. I have always known Grantaire to be a performer, an artist. His words this time are no exception.

“Truly…” I can say little more. He knows it. And so the night presses on, in silence, until finally I decide to head home. I have class in the morning, these assemblies at night…it is overwhelming.

“Before you go.” Grantaire’s voice interrupts my thoughts. He gestures for me to sit back down, and he seats himself across from me. His bottle-green eyes are intensified in the dim lighting, and he looks over my face with an unreadable expression.

Then, out of nowhere it seems, he does something I could never have anticipated. In a swift movement, he has outstretched a hand and trails electric fingers along the bottom of my hairline on the side of my head. He leans forward as a snake does-in the flash of an eye.

He kisses me.

Just for a second, half a heartbeat. Not on my lips, either, but not _not_ on my lips. He nervously pecks the side of my mouth, half on mine, half on my cheek. I know not whether he intended for it to fall in that spot, or was aiming for my lips or some other part of my face and missed. It is fast, and awkward, but in way, tender.

It happens.

Then Grantaire moves his head away, slowly, ponderously. He does not meet my eyes, but says, ever so softly with his eyes on my hand which rests on the table, “I _will_ be there.” Then he hurries away and out of the Musain.

I sit there, stock still. What just happened? It would seem that Grantaire has tried to kiss me, and I let him. At least, I didn’t turn him away. Had I known that it was coming, would I have still allowed it? An answer badgers at my mind, but I shove it away.

It is overwhelming.


End file.
